To B and not to D
by Non-canon Doyle
Summary: Ivan has a strange urge and, as usual, decides to go with the flow. However, he also has to bear the consequences, and it has everything to do with America.


**To B and not to D**

**SUMMARY: Ivan has a strange urge and, as usual, decides to go with the flow. However, he also has to bear the consequences, and it has everything to do with America. (Though this does not mean the story involves slash in this case, and my characters sincerely apologise for that.)**

Ivan was starving. This was the first thing he registered, a signal that his body sent to him, and his mind decided to go along with the plan fabricated by his stomach. Although he wasn't sure one could call it a planning process, his stomach wasn't very much of a sentient being after all. However, no matter what kind of being it was, momentarily it was being pretty naughty. Not as naughty as Italy's cowlick in a Gerita scenario everyone secretly fantasizes about possibly could, but still. Standards! Ivan looked around, eyes scanning for a possible source specified in the Plan. And there it was; it sent a shiver over him how well he remembered where to look.

'I want a burger!'

His boss looked up, face still weary of the kind of death talk Russians usually decide to go with as a conversation smoother when drunk. 'Are you sure, Braginsky?'

'Why not? It's delicious! Oh, I'm so hungry all of a sudden!' Ivan sang cheerfully. 'Yay!' He added for extra emphasis.

P. sighed. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed him casually maneuvering a large and way too excited man towards McDonald's, even in the crowded streets of Moscow. It would have been nice to opt for the security car, but he couldn't yet exclude the possibility that arriving with the best car ever made, literally guided by men in black in front of a cheap fast food chain store would also cause a few stares. Sending someone out for food was also out of the question: Braginsky wanted to _walk_ among his people. What a romantic.

When he shared some of his less private thoughts with him on the publicity issue (i.e. _not_ the ones starting with the should-be famous opening line 'You feeble-minded…"), Russia started to giggle.

'It's okay,' Ivan explained. 'We'll grab some good-looking woman again and you're only gonna end up with a marital scandal! That only proves your sexual prowess-'

P. sighed again. Hearing his nation's drunk personification talking about sexual prowess just wasn't his thing on a Sunday night.

'And it's open, let's get in, let's get in, I'm absolutely starving, that wine was oh so good, makes you wanna jump on some huge pile of meat covered in useless sandwich material and look, the sign says it's open all night, we could sit in-'

His boss converted his next sigh into a mental note, something along the lines of proper use of cyanide in freshly prepared tea. Well, first thing in the morning; it was never too early to hurt his country a little, but it was definitely too late as for today. At the moment, he was rather busy as it was. Dragging along his ever-present president, Russia was making his way happily to the counter. No wonder he always liked this boss and kept calling him back; he took him places~

_**~ ßßß ~  
**_

The morning (oh, who are we kidding? _afternoon_) sun hurt his eyes, so he decided to shift his position and disappear under his pillow. That did not work well either, as he was forced to encounter all kinds of unknown material on the way – paperwork, a plastic bottle, bags of something, oh there was definitely _too much_ paperwork-, and finally he settled for opening his eyes and going through the contents of his bed, only for safety purposes of course. The first thing he registered was that he saw no traces of America whatsoever (check); the second worst scenario was still waiting to happen, so no Belarus (check); nothing dead beside him, animal or otherwise specified (check); and the sheets were free of unwanted body fluids, including blood (very hard to get out). Check-check-check. Good! Then he kicked off everything that slightly reminded him of last night, books, empty bags of chips, East-Asian economy charts, and almost went back to sleep when it finally clicked. A certain aftertaste.

He slowly moved the tip of his tongue over his palate, probing, tasting, and there it was, the biggest bloody mistake he'd ever made over the past decade. After thrashing America's food for nearly a century now, he had woke to find its aftertaste lingering in his mouth and its traces on his bed sheet, the small, worn-out paper bags sitting there innocently like solemn eye witnesses on a murder trial. He'd done it. He was officially a hypocrite now. Sure enough, he did odd things almost every time he got drunk, which was a lot more times he was willing to admit, but this? This was over the edge, crossed the line, bordered on crazy, should have been off limits. So many synonyms, and so little time to be happy about them.

Ivan slowly moved, hand trembling with anger and disgust, guilt washing over him like oceans around his borders. As in a walk of shame, he collected all the evidence pointing at McDonald's and thrashed them into a separate bin reserved for security purposes. He was used to do this with failed treaty drafts and such, leaving the sensitive material for certain agents to shred to pieces and get rid of. How they were going to react to a pile of ordinary trash hidden among political documents was a sight to look forward to.

On his desk, he found a neatly arranged note - painkiller combo, with the pill being used as paperweight. There was only one word his president had considered important enough to leave him.

слабоумный.

P.

Ivan struggled back to bed, feeling heavy and way too silly to leave all of a sudden. Yes, he _did_ feel like an idiot. Yes, he _was_ a huge feeble-minded thing of a nation. What had he done?! His children had been given a terrible role model in such a mother! As he was lying there motionless, staring up at the ceiling, he blinked away a tear and finally managed to crack a slightly nervous smile.

He had to keep it a secret. But it was all fine, really, who didn't have secrets after all. Right? _Right?_ Kolkolkol.

As a last attempt to cling to sanity, Ivan pictured America with a decent plate of borscht, slurping away at 2 a. m., blue eyes shining bright, madman grin in place, in secret in secret, and the thought made him giggle oh so much. He rose from the bed and decided to look for his clothes for the day, quite satisfied with himself. Because in his brain, oh in his already waking brain there was a new master plan slowly coming to life. Da, this was going to be so much fun~

_**~ ßßß ~**_

'What's with Russia lately?' China asked suspiciously as France took his chance and sat next to him.

'Whatever do you mean?' The addressed looked like someone who hasn't decided yet if to be alarmed or amused, and needed a second opinion. Too bad they never invited any psychologists to their meetings.

'This party has been going pretty smoothly till now aru. But Russia hasn't had a sip yet. At. All.'

France decided to go with alarmed. Experience showed it was the best tactic when suddenly faced with one-word-long sentences.

'Is he ill?...' He wondered out loud. 'It doesn't bode well for us if he's in a particularly bad mood…'

'So… what do we do?' China wondered a bit too, it couldn't hurt.

Both nations let out a heavy sigh as they took in the sight on the opposite side of the room. Ivan was sitting there, tense smile in place, looking awfully bored and uncomfortable at the same time. His dark aura seemed to have grown when Prussia stumbled by him, cheerfully downing half of his beer in the process. Envy and murderous intent crossed Russia's face, if only for a moment.

They sighed again. No matter if it was Gilbert's awesome hair, or cross, or his pathetic excuse of an alcoholic beverage, somebody was in for some trouble in a six-meter radius.

Ivan's look was fixated on the opposite wall of the room as he was concentrating with all his might. Alright, first objective. Not hurting anybody tonight. This whole thing was infuriating, really, America hasn't touched any of the national food he prepared with so much care and cyanide especially for him – except for the one time when he made a sudden movement as a natural reaction to England, and sent half of the plates flying into Germany's lap. Poor borsht never saw it coming.

Fine, second objective, one that, considering his vulnerable state of mind, was flagged important like loving family background in a beauty pageant. He was not going to get drunk. He was _so_ not going to get drunk, and he was _so_ not going to steal America's hamburger supply neatly piled up next to the optimistically smiling please-punch-my-face young man. Piled up, as in 'please, do enjoy this little agreeable fellow in my very vicinity called Stolichnaya and then jump me in your sudden hunger and joy.' —End of story, he was_ not going to get drunk._

He sighed again. Such a long night, and so many idiots around. It was really hard to stay sober with France making such a stupid face at him. Perhaps he could throw something at them, just to kill some time but not all of France. Maybe the rest of his food? Hm, hmm, looks like there is fun at this party after all...

_Epilogue _

Russia's innocent attempt to create a decent, relaxed atmosphere at the nations' annual celebration was met with an unfair amount of criticism and an ensuing food battle, at the end of which the Russian Federation ended up being force-fed Big Macs by the United States while he himself was effectively choking said superpower with a large soup spoon.  
However, finally an agreement has been reached among the participants present considering their countries' representative colours in the newest atlases scheduled to be published in the year 2014. Everyone consented to take the colour of food in which he/she was covered on the the soon to be issued maps.

**~ ヘタリア! ~**


End file.
